Wedding daze

It was a slow day the day Sally first walked into my corner bar. It was early on a Saturday, the day shift rummies had left, and the night shift rummies were, well, late again. Just me and Carlos... in comes Sally.

She looked like she could handle herself, but considering Carlos, a no less than 250lb latino, prison tats all over the oak tree he used as neck, a neck that carried about 200lbs of gold chain I might add... Considering Carlos had done his 10 years on an aggrevated rape and assualt charge, I thought I'd keep the corner of my eye on her. I wasn't amused finding that he'd siddled up to her while I was in the back getting fresh ice.

I didn't know Sally, I didn't know that within minutes she'd be commenting on each tatoo, and asking after each saint and symbol on each chain... "Is that Saint Anthony?" "What's DE-EK mean?". Within fifteen minutes, Carlos had out a picture of his 13 year old daughter and was almost sobbing to Sally about how much he missed his little girl. They carried on until the night shift came in, and I lost track of her... I think that might have been the first night I heard "the laugh".

A few weeks later she was in again with some friends, it was busier, she pointed out JP as the boyfriend. I believe my thought at the time was "whose this bookworm?". I quit my job at the bar a few weeks after that, and didn't see Sally again for a while.

One night, Jennifer was out of town and I was shufflin' about the hood thinking about going into the city. I popped into the corner for my warm ups. A young couple were at the bar, we said hello. She told me we'd met before, but I had no recollection. Sally had transformed somehow from what I recalled a bit punkettish, to a sweet bob-haired midwestern gal. I didn't recognize the bookworm either, as he seemed to have aged from my memory of him as some beany little twelve-year old. She convinced me that it was really her; the three of us chatted the night away... they asked me back home to play games. Games, games and more GAMES! - Friends it would be.

How do you meet people? Work, school, the health club; I guess me being me, I do tend to meet a lot of people in bars; and well, very few at the health club... Doc, Steven, Jennifer, Henry to name a few have become good friends. Friends you see outside the bar. Sally and JP became even closer friends than most. It was great having new friends in a friendly nieghborhood. Most of our friends were Jen's former friends, these two felt more my own.

I have hundreds of great memories with Sally and JP, more than a few Sally would KILL me if I even hinted upon here. More than the memories though, Sally and JP became "that" type of friend. The type you had no discomfort with, the type who'd laugh at you when layed out, sprawled all over the tomato plants they'd just planted a month earlier. The type of friends whose company alone meant a great time was at hand.

Knowing Sally and JP went down that isle today makes nothing but perfect sense. Watching these two kids is like watching an old married couple; you know that ONE married couple we all know that seem perfectly matched AND genuinly happy in each others company. Oh sure they bicker, and JP often makes sally "cross"; but when they laugh, crimey when these two laugh, it's like that sigh of relief you had as a kid when you saw your parents make up... I mean, all is right with the world when Sally and JP laugh.

I can't wait to visit Sally and JP and their 7 kids one day. I am certain that that trailer is going to be full of laughter! Sally's infectious cackle and JP's "father knows best" ca-juggle. Another certainty is that two these kids will make it work! Well, either make it work, or change the rules. I can't picture JP with anyone other than Sally; I can't see anyone but steady as she goes JP putting up with that level of torment.

So, tonight, we wish 'em well and send them on their way. A way they've already been going for quite some time. Later tonight, I gaurantee we'll here them laugh. Tonight, most certainly all is right with the world.

America, my Beautifully Evil Mistress

I have come to, well somewhat of a conclusion. America is a country where if one plays by the rules they are considered a sissy; worse, if one is caught breaking the rules they are considered an idiot, a laughingstock. I draw your attension to the lillywhite with his name sewn onto his underpants standing at an open intersection in midtown waiting for the light to turn green! Witness the suit leaping out of the way of Joe Pakistani's cab after hurridly crossing on red... dufus!

Maybe my crime was that I only skirted the laws, the weakly passive aggressive Canadian approach... Getting caught skirting... that however does, kind of make me feel like a bafoon!

All is not lost, freedom of movement into and around ONE single country in this big ol' world, albeit one of the world's most wonderful, is not cause for total dispair. Separation from my friends is agonizing, one in particular, mortifyingly horribly awful...

Being stuck in Canada, I face no juntas, no persecution other than that of being too freindly and nowhere near critical enough of my evil mistress. Fortunately you don't play Canada like a fiddle, you play it like a six note kindergarten xylaphone. All is not lost, temporary setbacks allthough perhaps not so easily, can always be overcome.

The ol' bridgewalker has to become a bridgemaker, and I have a STRONG ally in this...

Feeling fiesty this morning, fiesty focussed and dry; I challenege myself to the clear objective of coming home... as a matter of fact, my goal will be to make them beg me to come back. AND who knows... maybe, maybe at some point upon hearing this cry for my return... my answer will simply be NO THANKS.

Agreed, a somehwhat dellusional self agrandizement; a bit of selfworth defence mechanism at play. But I am not a baffoon, just an unlucky sod who, after years skirting the rules just caught the subway grate draft, exposed his hams and got a great big ol' bite on the ol'...

We'll see you soon.

Commentary, It's Been a while

So, I find myself not having writen a damned thing for way to long, so I, what slide back into commentary... I promise you I will not ride this, AS I have pretty much abandoned my opinion on everything over the last few months. Oh sure, I wax the wax I used to wax when waxing with old pals who clean the same colored wax outta their ears as I do each evening... AND I'll argue with the pals I used to argue with for the sake of arguing only because the arguments make us feel, well you know closer to each other after we have made up after the argument... Commentary, why not, maybe it'll shake a few beans loose...

Shorter Waits for Women in New York Restrooms
The City Council of New York City passed legislation this week requiring new public venues and those undergoing renovations, such as bars, restaurants, theaters or concert halls, to create restroom equity by establishing a two-to-one ratio of women's to men's stalls. Schools, hospitals and prisons will not be affected by the legislation. According to the New York Times, Virginia, Texas, Pennsylvania and California already have similar measures in effect.

Council member Yvette D. Clarke (D), who sponsored this measure, told the Times that “there is something a bit degrading about standing in line to use a bathroom," and later called the passage “a women’s rights accomplishment” that “goes to the quality of life we are able to enjoy in the city.” Women in New York are pleased with the news, according to the Times, happy never again to face experiences in men’s rooms or outdoors because of the length of a women’s restroom line.

From the Feminist Majority Foundation - Feminist Daily News


OK, so it was only last night, I hit the can at the Hammerstien Ballroom only to find two out of the three stalls occupied by chicks [er, gals... er, sorry, women]. AND as I recall, at last years Belmont Stakes [the third leg of the triple crown for you non-sport types], I found myself in a line up to the men's room with just as many women as there were men. It would seem New York ladies [can I say that?], of all stripes, from Kraftwerk fans to Hourse Racing affectionados have busted through and have started to ignore those little international symbols of MAN [no skirt] and WOMAN [skirt] on the doors of our public washrooms.

I for one applaud this seeming intrusion on my space; AND, I enjoy when women wear [skirts]. I mean, on the subject of the rest room, it doesn't harm me in any way to share my hole with the women. Oh sure, they monopolize the stalls, and well [he says bashfully], I am well kind of a stall guy, long story... But, truly, no, if they don't mind the grunt plops, and the sound of Niagra Falls at the urinals, be my guest. Better yet, there have been dozens of article written about how women can actually contort themselves to use the urinals... I say go ahead ladies! Honestly, what's ours is yours; if you've learned how to use the tools while only spillin' say, the average "last three drops" we're currently allowed, the device is all yours. AND rest assured, we NEVER sneak a peak, EVER!

OK, we all may want to think twice when it comes to the antiquities, you know, the "troughs" we men still find at the odd ancient sports venue; a women could do some serious damage to that [insert designer label here] number she picked up at [insert name of trendy SoHo dress shop here] at one of those throw backs to the Holy Roman Orgy.

In the artical above we have venerable ladies rag advocating yet more legislation that denigrates the resourceful. Legislation that tells our women friends, our pals, our lovers, daughters, mothers and sisters that big ol' daddy Gov-Man [in this case, his poor retarded cousin known as City Council], is your only hope at a fare shake [the women who get that lousy pun, give a collective wink]. Yep, the women who currently love me, inspire me, or just plain old beat me up these days don't have a hope in hell of having a sweet pee unless we enact legislation; AND here's the rub fellas! Architecturely speaking, where do you think this extra space to ensure the 2 to 1 ratio is going to come from? Old Bill, the janitor ain't giving up his nap space; NOPE they'll be taking that 2 to 1 ratio right out from underneath our danglers... [can you say two to a hole boys, it's summer camp sword fights all over again].

I say lets drop this, and legislate that all establishments "tear down this wall" and create one big ol' pee-palace. Sure throw in a few extra stalls [as I applaud loudly], create a more "Lady-Friendly" urinal and we can all drain together! I mean, as my cousin Jebadia would say, it's all just "dicks and hootlies", an aint neither gots teef... The only problem being... I'm hearing the K'werk strike up "Radioactivity" and that bitch has been in there for, what 5 minute... man that's just not human!

I'm here because...

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda... stayed in Canada... Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda, oh yes. I'm here because... well, it only makes sense... I'm here because... everywhere else bores me to tears. Well that's not exactly true, but honestly, I cannot comprehend my ever living anywhere else again. I'm here because... Man, these bridges are frikin' cool! I'm here because...this is where my friends are.

I'm here because... I ran the rope in the place I was last... I'm here because... it killed me to loose her. I'm here because... there really wasn't anyway to adjust after loosing everything I had worked for years and years and years... I'm here because... I made a good effort that did not work there, because there, that type of effort is wasted, completely wasted.

I'm here because... ever since '79 I always knew there was a chance... I'm here because... it always felt like home here; even after every change, even after each gap in visits that allowed me to see that this place grows like an Uncle who has been alive since the day your great great great grandfather started the chain reaction that ended up as you. I'm here because... because this IS where humanity has ended up. I'm here because... because my 10th, 11th, 12th, and 13th grade Art Class Teacher, Mrs. Colby, planted the damned seed and my Art School Profs watered it...

I'm here because... I was left with no reason to stay there. I'm here because... she gave me the excuse to follow her... I'm here because... I got offered a job at exactly the right and most wrong of times. I'm here because... 'cause I stuck it out. I'm here because... 'cause I fought to stay... I'm here because... I beat the temptation to jump the border or jump the bridge... I'm here because... because I haven't proved that I belong here yet, shallow mutha fucka... NO!

I'm here because... because I belong here... I'm here because... because this is the place I feel most comfortable... I'm here because... this is the greatest of greatest places on earth and in time. I'm here because... the bridges are indeed, lovely. I’m here because, again, this is the place my friends are…I’m here despite my most important family… I'm here because... I have thing I have to get done, and this is where I am meant to do them... I'm here because... because I am meant to do these things with her.

I'm here because... well, I kinda know that this place love's people like me, as much as this place loves people like you.

Roamin’ has come and he has gone

So, it’s a Sunday, a gray Sunday here in Brooklyn, feeling bad as the Roman girls are struggling with yet another overcast day threatening rain on a weekend when they’re ‘spoused to be selling the things they make, make with love. Sitting there thinking about all the things I should be doing but, ain’t ‘’cause I am hung over and lazy from the great night we had last night with friends in from Rome and VAG on the turntables.

Lazy Sunday, hanging with the roomie, talkin’ ‘bout things we haven’t talked about yet… His, pals calling him about pills they give to kids because they’re doing just what kids do, spin, run, yell and pull each other’s pants down… frikin’ addies… what are we thinking when we give our kids these things my friends do when they want to do, the do do… Long stories not told here, now, that well makes me quite, well, makes me quite sad.

Metz, Yankees game on… windows are wide open, no screens… conversations, then… BIRD, BIRD, BIRD… BIRD at, 3:00 o’clock, incoming, incoming BIRD!!!!… hands up, protect the face… here it comes… making a bee line for the open windows in the home that is becoming quite a nice home; a home Dylan and I are starting to make comfy; a place where our friends like to come and chill and do the do that we give to our ten year old kids only, because they are acting like ten year old kids; spinning, laughing, running, playing and pulling each other's pants down.

BIRD, BIRD, BIRD in the house!

Hey there BIRD, bird, welcome aboard, we'll assume yer a he as you've showed up in he-ville… Please don’t shit on my clean dishes; my dinner, or Dylan’s bed. Hello there birdie, num nums… I think, we’ll close the windows, keep you safe as you are NOT a black bird, not a brown bird nor a Robin… you’re a powder blue budgie who has somehow managed to escape; escape from someone who has obviously spent some money for you…

If we sent you back into that rain, we figure you would most likely die as the person who bought you, spent that money on you, now, is the only guy who can get you the food and drink you need to survive, well, OK in the bird owner like manner you are familiar with… birdy… I NOW find myself putting posters up in the ‘hood on your behalf.

In coming… BIRD!: is still there this morning, moved from her/his perch in the bookshelf that makes Dylan’s room completely privacy free.. Tweet he said… I’d like food, tweet he said, what the fuck you doing draping all the windows with mean girls so I do not know a way out… Tweet I said back, bitch/bastard I’m not having you fly head first into glass over and over again looking for a way to escape from me... me the guy whose now calling everyone he knows who have birds to advise him on how to keep little Roamin’ alive…

Ya, I called him Roamin’… Buffalo Jen, from Buffalo thought it a good name.

Today, Anthony called me at 2:30pm… A pal of Anthony’s had seen my bulletin posted at the bodega at the corner, and got the word back. It would appear that Roamin’ had left Anthony’s place a week ago… Left from Anthony’s apartment 4 block’s away.. Roamin’ apears to have been a good name indeed. Anthony dropped by, we grabbed Roamin’, put him in a bag and sent him home, or well, back to Anthony's.

Anthony asked if I wanted, 5, 10 bucks or something… the going rate for the return of stupid birds I guess… Forget that! Sure, I coulda bought a burger, or perhaps maybe a drink at the local later, BUT why… from what I’m told a bird in the apartment is good luck.

Roamin’ is home, or, well at least at Anthony's with his six other bird like pals Anthony has hanging around, well, let's hope they're as happy to have him back as I was to have him around last night...

IN COMING!

Roamin’ you are more than welcome, into my window… anytime you like… Roamin’ the bird-dude!

On Behalf of Diana and Her Request for Stories that Change

Today I recieved email from a dear old friend...
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Ah, the spring! The signal of new beginnings...and with new beginnings are new endings. It's the end of the school year and the beginning of summer.

What better way to mark beginnings and endings than with coffee and cake in the afternoon? So you're invited!

Where: Diana's Place, 354 Spadina Ave.
When: Saturday, May 21st, from 2 to 7 pm or so
Why: To chat, eat, chat, enjoy, caffinate, enjoy...
Bring: a story about an ending or new beginning! Feel free to bring children, pop/juice, wine/beer, liqueur that goes with coffee/tea, a healthy snack to counter the cake, an unhealthy snake, a small hedgehog, a guest, someone I meant to invite but misspelled their email...whatever you like.

Note: There will be several cake choices including flourless, sugarless and just plain fattening!

Hope you can make it out!

Diana

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Summer…
You sit there on the curb, smelling the smell that you can barely smell after years of soaking in that smell. You sit their smelling the fetid rubbish pouring out of half opened bags of garbage; picked clean of depositable cans by the family on Eagle whose living it is to do YOUR recycling. You sit there, again and again same old, same old, waiting for one of the old and tired, old defeated men to come down those stairs… to throw you what you don’t want but always find yourself getting from the fire escape affixed to the place with exactly no hope.

Running you momentarily realize that you, yes YOU are the idiot. You are your own worst enemy; YOU are the worst thing in your life. Forgotten again in a moment, the next moment, the moment that melts into the next moment when you decide moments later to do it all over again. The day after the day before you made your escape to the beautiful places one spends their summers… the places that finds you at peace, but that, upon your return, finds you right back on the curb moments after the car door slams behind you… summer, the heat and fetid smells of half emptied bags… don’t think about it. At least, don’t think about it right now…

Fall…
There’s always hope when the leaves turn yellow, red then brown… There’s always hope as things seem to die and wilt all around your feet… there’s always hope as you start to notice the smoking laws are making you cold and young overpaid men are hitting the balls that climb the fences that actually mean something to you… there was but little hope last year. Not because history was made with a great big yawn, but because everything, everything you did, even sitting on the curb had become one big empty hollow, desperate yawn.

Found some joy in the pigskin drama’s found more joy at the bottom of a bottle, bottled in Kentucky. Found a few friends, yawning the same yawn and waddled on through the tunnel that links the G to the V. The stenches lingered last fall, the old men appeared, then re-appeared, then re-appeared, then re-appeared again… yawn. Praying for an ice, a freeze over that would lock you indoors, that would knock you cold… maybe even end it all and send you back to… ice and snow.

Winter…
Things get busy when the leaves are all gone. Family calls and plans are made… could never have anticipated the plans being hatched by family that year. Could never have anticipated the offers put on the table… could never have anticipated the opportunity that offer would hold.

Favors for old friends, new roomies, little boys sitting, lounging around on great nights, beer, hamburger helper and Andre the Giant spinning his ever growing tale of success, well OK, making the best out of a bad situation. Arguments and fights I grew less and less interested in, placard, buttons, badges and t-shirts telling of the coming aunslauch, doom and gloom in the city of well meaning but never doing anything dumb people. A distraction for the moments, the results, then… a beautiful dinner in Ohio. Then a birthday, then a fight, then a momentary moment of clarity, insanity, what’s the difference? That, all that, each and every moment of that… over. Thank goodness, perhaps, or perhaps, more happiness found at the bottom of the bottle, bottled and corked in the great coalmining dead disastrous state of Kentucky… Change now or don’t.

Midnight Mass after a few days off, then a few more days off after midnight mass… long walks and a lot of conversations with myself… bridges… walking bridges, bridge after bridge, while I looked for a route that would take me from here to there, from there to here. Conversations with myself that turned into ranting and ravings… ranting and ravings… that turned into memories… memories that turned into stories… stories that mean nothing to anyone but me… stories that meant something to her.

Spring…
There is therapy in memories… tons of therapy if you have years of memories. Clicking little keys as you empty those Kentucky bottles, as you empty your mind of memories of sitting on that damned curb. The cold lingers, the ice you had hoped for stuck in the air a bit longer than anyone but yourself had hoped for… A quick message that takes you by surprise…

Admitting defeat, admitting mistakes, admitting you are an asshole whose own worst enemy is YOU; who hates the you YOU became to the people you love, IS, I believe one of the steps those people I met last winter try to take. I took that step by making my rambling self absorbed sappy therapeutic gigga-jagga accessible to everyone I know, everyone I love… never did figure out if they understood what I was doing… one person though, one person did, and that one person also enjoyed the way I was doing it…A quick message… I was taken by surprise!

So, Diana, a story of change… Cake and coffee… enjoying the strains of spring at the moment they become the next summer. On behalf of my old friends who may gather at Diana’s place this weekend, I submit to you my story of change. There have been nights when the stench was there; there have been days when I have prayed for cold; there have been moments when I question the miraculous things that have happened between sitting on that curb, and now sitting at my own desk in my own place; working on the things I have a say in whether or not I enjoy doing them… A wise old young man said quite recently… “It’s crazy how much self esteem can be generated by the simple act of a women telling the guy that she loves him”…

There have been moments when I have looked at what has become what, and have asked myself, “Can this actually happen?”… The answer comes back in a sigh with a Roman accent, YES it can happen… If it could not happen… then I would be doomed, BUT, it has happened, and I sit at my own desk, submitting to you this story of change, a change I am completely, absolutely confident of, confident of the fact it has indeed, happened.

Confident, completely confident as the you, the YOU who was my worst enemy and the one I hated most, put aside it’s YOU, and met the Italian, the Roman… I am now in love with YOU; completely, absolutely in love with you. Completely confident that YOU will never let me down again…

AND with that my friends, the therapy session is closed… OH, sticky, saccrin, syrupily sappy prose will be the norm… but now I write for the frikin’ fun of it. The break is over… see you again in a few more days.

Enjoy your cakes and coffees… I do miss you folks!

No... I, FUCKING, LOVE... New York

An old pal in SF has just launched a travel site http://www.realtravel.com/, in yet another attempt to spend another entire day fucking the dog at work, I thought I'd oblige him on at least half his request for me and my pals to write up ten reviews of this big ol' greatest of great places... Let's enjoy the Spring!

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Sights: Brooklyn Bridge Park
"Romance Under the Bridges"

It's well known that New York City has great parks, and that New Yorkers Adore them. Central Park is legendary, Prospect Park and the new West End shoreline are favorites for locals and wandering tourist alike. I almost shouldn't be telling you this, but the best Park, the absolutely most wonderful place to chill the street stress right outta your bones is The Brooklyn Bridge Park in Dumbo.

An urban experience in the most urban city in North America. Imagine sitting on a rock beach, driftwood, wave lapping the shore. Your field of view... Two of the worlds most spectacular bridges soaring out on each side of you and the trillion dollar view of downtowns office towers, SMACK in your face.

Weeknights are best as the place is almost empty. I suggest leaving the office, hotel room a bit early, well OK, early by NYC standards, say 6:30/7:30. Get yourself to the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge. Take a leisurely stroll across one of the cities finest attractions in itself.

On the Brooklyn side, take the first pedestrian exit and walk one block over to Washington Street. As you turn onto Washington Street, be careful, any fan of Sergio Leone's "Once Upon a Time in America" is going to faint... Three blocks down Washington St., and you're in the park.

Insider Tip: Bring a couple of plastic cups, on Washington you'll find a very fine wine store... Brown bagging it on the shores of the East River, alone or with someone special as the sun sets over Manhattan between the oldest and the prettiest Bridges in the city. A plastic cup full of wine, your arm around your lover, the sound of ferry waves... eh, hem Paris?!? The City of Lights has nothing on "Big City Bright Lights" tonight baby!

My Town... Enjoy it Babes!

Note: You can also get there via the F train, Exit at York Street Station, or the A to High Street Station. Dumbo, the neighborhood itself has more than enough things to do after the sun finally sets. Rice, on Washington is a fantastic Asian fusion restaurant, and there are a number of great bars tucked in and around the cobblestoned streets of what used to be called Viniger Hill.

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Accomidation: The Gershwin Hotel
"This ain't no Daze-Inn"

Located perfectly conveniently equal distances from Midtown and the Villages this place is great for the folks who want to spin in wide circles and get it all done. The immediate area itself is kind of sparten, but on a nice night you can easily walk to Union Square, the East or West Villages... and anywhere you'd probably want to go is easily within a $6 to $7 cab fare.

This is an old SRO convert, or perhaps re-convert back may be more correct. The rooms are small, pretty sparten, but who the heck stays in their rooms in NYC anyhow. OK, if you need space, rent a suite for something like $20 extra [oh, and that's on top of what an average room price of say $97]...

One important tip... On most evening they curtain off a chunk of the lobby and turn it into a hip little lounge/club. Unless you enjoy spinning off to sleep to the sounds of some trippin' DJ, get a room on the third floor or above... Wait, who the heck sleeps in New York anyhow!

My Town... Enjoy it Babes!

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Entertainment: Spring Lounge
"This Ain't No Lounge... No Dive Bar... Paradise"

I came across the Spring Lounge one day while daydreaming my way through Little Italy and the Lower East Side. Dreaming about the teaming streams of good folks that plowed their way through these neighborhoods that were once considered the Calcutta of North America. Day dreaming about mob hits and oversized 1970's era boat mobiles trying to make their getaways down these tiny bumpy streets.

I came across the Spring Lounge at exactly the moment I needed a beer! OK, plusses, it ain't no lounge. I mean, it's not all done up like the waiting area for your 2035 trip aboard American Airlines Space Liner cruise to that Orbiting Hotel that's become oh so 2034! Nope, this is a great little comfy hang in a great 'hood you should visit. Big ol' windows let you people watch and friendly folks at the bar won't stop talking to you. There's usually a good looker working the taps, and very few frat boys!

No minuses here... If you need a break from shopping in SoHo, or if you're just well day dreaming I highly recommend the Spring Lounge, go for one stay for three make a new friend.

My City... Enjoy it Babe!

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Sights: East River Bridges
"I Dare You... Triple Dog Dare You!"

More of a challenge than a review... A challenge to all you spandex wearin' bike riding, roller blading health nuts, you life-lovers who have recently seen it fit to not allow me and my pals to smoke in those bars you don't even go to anyhow. I challenge you to what could be your best day in New York ever. A spiritual day, a day you'll think some new thoughts about how us humans get things done, I mean really done, done! The day you walk every bridge, except for one, that crosses New York's East River. [bonus points if you name the one you'll miss]

OK, here's the background... first though, just so you know, I drink about 17 and a half gallons of beer, wine and/or various whiskeys a week and smoke more than a broken down delivery van illegaly licenced out of a chop shop in Flushing so, I love life just as much as you do. And I probably have more of the stamina required to undertake this great adventure than you could imagine. OK the background... I did this one day when suffering the worst hangover of my life... a beautiful walk, a walk that starts with no idea in your head at all... just follow me. I guarantee you'll enjoy it.

OK, get yourselves to Queens Plaza Subway Station in Queens [I'm giving you a head start, as I actually started this trip a mile away in Greenpoint Brooklyn]. Queens Plaza's not that far ladies just take a look at your freakin' subway map, or ask one our famously friendly city folks for directions. The N, R, Q, F and a raft of other trains stop at Queens Plaza. Its at QP that you'll find the foot of our first bridge the 59th Street, Queensboro Bridge, or as I like to call her, the Grand Old Lady. The Old Lady is a nice place to start, simple nice views of the Upper East side... a pretty picture. Oh, small note, this is the Bridge I used to escape the city a few years back, she's not my favorite, but the old hulk holds a special place in my heart.

OK, so this is a challenge, I'm not going to give you exact directions, not going to leave you any breadcrumbs... you find your own darned way from bridge to bridge, through the neighborhoods the sweet sweet neighborhoods. OK, That said, I will lead you to the next one as it requires a bit of serious local knowledge. While crossing the Old Lady, you will have noticed the Roosevelt Island Tramway. A ski lift like contraption that you'll need to take to Roosevelt Island in order to get to the Roosevelt Island Bridge that take you into Astoria Queens.

Once in Astoria [hey stop for some Greek food]... You're going to have to find your way north to the Tri-Boro Bridge. It's a bit of a hoof, I'll let you take the train if you like, but remember, I walked this part, AND stopped for two beers in the process. The Tri-Boro is the longest, highest and dullest on this here day-of-you-freakin-health-happy-life wander. But you have to do this bridge. Robert Moses' proudest moment before he forced the city to span the Verizano Narrows. The Bridge that paid for the rest but has yet to pay for itself. The Bridge that stitched together what the glaciers tore apart thousands of years ago... I could go on.

Here's where it get's fun you blading fools. The Tri-Boro can put you in the Bronx or in Harlem. Ha, I see the silliest media brain washed of you kind of feeling a bit uneasy. Grow up, this is the safest city in N.A. [statistically speaking]. You'll want to get off the bridge at Randels Island, technically part of Manhattan, but really nowhere. Look for a sign, any sign that leads you to the 125th Street Bridge, a gorgeous piece of over engineered lift bridge that take you into the heart of Lou Reeds lyrics... in Harlem, "Up to Lexington 1 2 5, feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive"... OK, if indeed you feel like doing Heroin at this point, that's your prerogative. I'd strongly recommend against this, as you still have half an hours subway ride and three more bridges to cross. Besides, heroin is so, 1995.

We'll speed it up here... Grab the 4, 5, or 6 train at 125th and Lex to the Brooklyn Bridge subway station, away aways on downtown. It lets you out at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, a nice if crowded walk. Crawl through Dumbo and find the Manhattan Bridge, New York's prettiest Bridge by far... after crossing the Manhattan, you'll be wandering through the lower lower East Side, walk North to Delancy and there you will find... the Ultimate, my favorite the greatest of great New York Bridges. The ol' workman, Uncle Saul... Pappa... The Williamsburg Bridge. The bridge that opened the floodgates OUT of the doom a despair of the cities famous east side slums. The bridge that allowed all the pent up Jews, Italians, Greeks, Portuguese, Slavs, Poles and whaty what nots out of lower Manhattan and into, well, OK, into the slums of Brooklyn.

Savor this walk folks, you made it, you rose to the occasion... You took Uncle GoGo's challenge and beat him over the head with it. I applaud you. At the center of the bridge, take time to note that you can see every bridge you just crossed. You can also see a few you didn't. When you get to the other side, at the very foot, you'll find the stop for the B61. Take a victory ride on the bus on up to Williamsburg, about 5 stops or so. Find yourself a trendy bar or a nice pub and consider this for me... give it some thought. Really, you bridge crossin' spandex wearin' maniac, consider this for me and put it down in 75 words or less... just why the hell will you NOT let me and my pals smoke in bars!

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Entertainment: Karma
"Smoke Your Brains Out... In Other Words, Pure Transandental Bliss"

As you probably know, New York has fallen prey to the goody goods and has made it illegal for hard working independent business men and women, men and women who have toiled there lives away building business that cater to a particular clientele... the city has made it illegal for these people to allow their customers to smoke in the bars they have built. OK, forget the politics, have your view, mine... I like to mix my poisons on the nights I go out to hang in the places I hang most every night. Exhale, ah... Imagine my joy when a new friend, a new very beautiful Roman friend at that notified me of a place where I can "god forbid", smoke and drink at the same time!

Karma, a hookah bar in the East Village has been grand fathered under the smoking ban because, well because it's just that, a hookah bar. You know, the politically correct always seem to work themselves into these lovely dilemmas... We can't let the sick smoke at the bars we don't go to, but we also can't slap someone's hertigacal practices in the face either... what to do... Hookah bars that have been around for ten years are exempt. Funny enough, they also exempted the Havana Club at the top of 666 5th Avenue, a cigar bar for the cities power brokers... I guess "power Broker heritage" is a heritage worth preserving as well. Been there once, drank my salary in booze and smoked a pack and a half in about three and a half hours. Cinderella Power Broker for a day...

Karma, is a comfy place. Kind of a sweet ol' dive bar out front. Dimly lit hookah couches in the back. A great place to bring your gal or guy and neck like high school students out on that date when they knew both their parents would be out later than themselves so curfew was not an issue. A great place for PSA... a great place to drop a dime on butts and wag your finger in the general direction of City Hall.

You'd expect it to be crowded, it's OK, most weeknights that rarest of rare Manhattan real estate, the bar stool, is readily available. You'd expect it to be expensive [I mean this place does have us addicted retards more or less by those thing we're making less and less usable with every puff]... no more expensive than anywhere else, $5 for a beer, $6 for a drink, $10 for a bowl of tabac, if that's your pleasure. Me, I never touch that stuff sweetened flavored tobacco, please... somebody write a law.

This is a New York secret, if I see you there, I'll kill ya if you tell someone I sent you there, they'll kill me, so, don't say hello, and keep your damned trap shut.

Great DJ's as well, puff...

Why do I Love YOU...

Why do I Love YOU... well because you threw me a smile as you were walking those four dumb dogs down Bedford on a night it should not have been as cold as it is tonight. Why do I Love YOU... well, your dad took out my appendix, no questions asked, THEN you let my granny die in his home... no questions asked. Why do I Love YOU... because when you asked me the tough questions, you let me fudge. Why do I Love YOU... you wear your politics on my sleeve.

Why do I Love YOU... because you simply said yes. Why do I Love YOU... you asked me my opinion, and noded in agreement even though you were di-o-metrically oposed. Why do I Love YOU... we sailed, and taught sailing together. Why do I Love YOU... you posted nice comments about me after meeting me only momentarily. Why do I Love YOU... You gave me a simple job to do when there really weren't a lot of jobs about. Why do I Love YOU... we raised two beautiful cats, AND had a whole whack of GREAT trips together while trying not to absolutely completely dislike each other... Why do I Love YOU... because you made the end easy.

Why do I Love YOU... you visited me, when I really needed a visitor. Why do I Love YOU... you let me show you the buildings, roads and streets teaming with people AND let me, without words, show you just how much I LOVE this. Why do I Love YOU... you love your place and have shown that to me again and again... Why do I Love YOU... you take pictures that break my heart. Why do I Love YOU... you treated me like... shit? NO, like some one you were so proud of you couldn't stand to see me fail. Why do I Love YOU... you packed three sandwhiches for me, and two for my dad, the guy who did NOT treat me like shit.

Why do I Love YOU... you make me laugh my frikin' head off!

Why do I Love YOU... you let me put ideas in your head and called them ours. Why do I Love YOU... you are raising my sister's and mines little babies. Why do I Love YOU... you play rock and roll like it was meant to be played and really enjoy doing it like a frikin Rock star. Why do I Love YOU... because you are the first person introduced to me here, and that night you introduced me to the word GAPPER while handing me cans outta an 18 pack that I seem to remember paying the lions share for. Why do I Love YOU... because you absolutely love him against all odds... Why do I Love YOU... because you defended her and you are a spiritually... dude-guys.

Why do I Love YOU... because, you KNOW I stole that money not on purpose. Why do I Love YOU... because the names Tim and Tom sound so nice and dumb when you say 'em over and over agian. Why do I Love YOU... because you have worked by my side for years and years and have finally found your place away from the boys and me... Why do I Love YOU... you did NOT invite me to your wedding, but then felt kinda bad when I did NOT point that out. Why do I Love YOU... you taught me so damned much about... being a smart souless Canadian.

Why do I Love YOU... because you do not call. Why do I Love YOU... because you do not write. Why do I Love YOU... because you make no attempt to contact me, see me, or... Why do I Love YOU... because I know... Why do I Love YOU... through all this... I know, YOU kinda do love me [wink].

Oh to live on Beer Geek's Mountain

As mentioned earlier, I'm struggling not to make this a teenaged girl's diary. Not a report on the daily doings of Uncle GoGo, not the daily glop and glue of the sloppy sap that I appear to be floating on these days... This is not a diary entry but yet another story of friends, these stories I'm trying to pound out of these little keys out of this soak old brain before they drown in all the other things I'm pouring on it these days. This story may sound a bit like a diary entry as this story began this last weekend when three great friends who I hadn't seen for years and years flew down to the city, specifically to drink beer. Carl, his sister Ina and her husband Ralph, had come down to Beertopia, we planned to meet, we met for one of those really great weekends.

I will have to immediately exclude Carl from this story, although, well, he will appear from time to time to flash that goofy grin and interject with one of his classic semi-segwaynic master pieces that immediately plasters a new never before seen smile on your face... The story of Carl runs way beyond my re-introduction to Ralph and Ina. In the future, if you do read the inevitable story of Carl, I assure you, you will need professional help un-sticking your stuck on "tickle fast" tickle button. Carl is by far the greatest Goofball I have ever known; more exactly, I'd have to say that any Goofballedness I may claim to have, I've learned from Carl, the master of all goofy Goofballs! Diverted...

Ina, the sister of the Goofball and Ralph own the Cafe Vollo. Have owned it and operated it together for 18 years or so, together. That my friends has to be some kind of marathonic like "being together all the time" record for a couple, living working eating and sleeping together. An honorable record AND they also managed to raise two boys, good boys at the same time... OK, the funny aside this weekend, Ina and Ralph did start a lot of conversations with, "while we were in Naples, we weren't speaking to each other..." or "...we were on this train, we weren't speaking to each other..." or the classic "...we were at the restaurant, we weren't speaking with each other... but did manage to order for each other"...for some reason the start of these stories seamed as logical as they were funny. Ina and Ralph appear to be one of those couples who soundly "beat the odds". I won't even begin to predict how they've done so in such a spectacular fashion.

I know Ina and Ralph through Carl, but I also know them through Cafe Vollo, which from time to time I would frequent as a regular; at other times would find myself in only as an occasioneller, in 18 years, you can be both over and over again. Vollo's one of those comfortable little places, an Oasis at it's location on the most commercial streets in Toronto; food drink and friends at a slow pace in a sea of fast food places... When I was first going there as a regualr, it was wine and Italian; since then they appear to have grafted on beer... beer in a Big Big Big way. Vollo is now a craft beer bar on top of a wine and Italian restaurant, not having been there for years, I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how they could have managed to jam all this good stuff into such a tiny precious little Oasis on Toronto's most commercial street. I can only imagine this tiny precious place jammed with folks enjoying exactly what they like, pressed together as happy people allow themselves to be jammed when enjoying themselves; Ina and Ralph enjoying them being there.

Beer. I've always loved beer, beer has let me down a few times. I've got mad at beer a few times, and most definitely beer has been mad at me more than once. I'm pretty non-selective when it comes to beer. Oh I mean, I do like good beer, micro-brewed beers, brewed by men and women who love the beer they brew are obviously my preference, but heck, toss me a silver bullet while tailgating the Bills; I'll pop it, tip it and pour it down the pipe just as quickly as I would any "loved" beer.

The reason for Ina, Ralph's and Carl's visit was beer... Beyond Beertopia, their agenda included visits to New York's finest beer bars [bars they don't want to emulate, but bars they could pick up a few things, pointers from here and there]; there were also a few "beer stores" [Canadians shudder at the very term], beer stores where they could buy samples of the many hundreds of beers they'd like to serve at Cafe Vollo. Like to serve...

The LCBO, the beer police and beer-auchracy... All beer bought in the Province of Ontario, that's in Canada, must be bought through the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario. This board, basically does not want the people of Ontario to drink, or at least, they do not want Ontarians to have any real choice in what they drink. Molson swill and Labatt swill seems to do the trick for most, so why not all? Every time Ralph and Ina want to present a new loved beer to their customers, they must first subject the people who love making their beers to the horribly beer-o-cratic LCBO... Any of them who have had experience with this beer-o-cracy will usually just say no. Any of them who live in the more economically free "down here", undoubtedly will say no... Alas, Canada's misinterpretation that Americans cannot make beer continues, there loss, AND as far as I'm concerned just another great big black eye on that monstrously wrongly implemented thing they jokingly call free trade and globalization... Ooops...

So here were Ina, Ralph and Carl, in the greatest of great places sipping beers they could not have. Enjoying their continued learning of a marginal but interesting thing, I think the word is, here they were exuberantly enjoying being Beer Geeks! I gladly tagged along; although consistantly making many mistakes; mistakes like bringing these beer lovin' folks, in the city as Beer Geeks to a Belgium restaurant when these Beer Geeks tastes run so American; mistakes like dragging them to The Whitehorse for History, the Whitehorse were on a quiet mid-winter, mid-week, mid-afternoon, one can simply melt into the old wood walls while aimlessly pouring pale yellow swill down the empty pipe and into that place that makes your head spin and forget the daily shits that had been shoveled on you earlier in the day. The Whitehorse, were ol' what's his name died, and where on sunny Saturdays they serve up their swill to a gaggle of frat boys waiting to strike out again and again that night... Mistakes like constantly ordering Lager in front of these ol' Ale, hrrrr, hmmm, OK Ale snobs [smile].

Of course, it was no mistake organizing the meeting between Ina, Ralph, Carl and the Roman. That little coup resulted in the creation of a fivesome of friends that seemed to eat up the entire weekend. You can always tell when you've hooked the right people with the right people; any "meet stress" dissolves instantly and in very short order the people you introduced are talking rapidly about anything and everything you know absolutely nothing about... Nothing nicer than the silly smile on the face of the great big Goofball apprentice, nodding in agreement to stories about places he's never been and experiences he never had; nodding as if to say, YO good friends, tomorrow I will have had these experiences, and by next year, well, I'll be a definite part of these stories of places I've never been, things I haven't seen and experiences I've never had yet. Precious is that big and goofy grin.

The next day found me on a mission, a mission to haul Ina, Ralph and Carl around point to point in Brooklyn visiting mysterious sites of high importance to Beer Geekdom... Places I'd even been to, but never saw them for this quality. At "American Beer Distributors", in my old neighborhood no less, I found Ina, Ralph and Carl bouncing through the isles like a 10 year old boy in a Neil Simon play would bounce around Mr. Clancy's Soda Fountain, 5 & Dime Candy Store, you know out in Flatbush or up in the Bronx. Ralph, carefully selecting new brews to be sampled by the hardcores up at Vollo, Ina leading him to the ones he may have missed, Carl, well Carl, just wandering around with that goofy grin looking like he was already tasting from the handfuls of bottle that he had placed in his side of the shopping cart. Beer Geeks seem such a more happier bunch than those Whinies you see skulking around the wine stores with the serious look of scholarly proffesors on their faces, or those drunk after the first 10 bottles tatsted Scotch-Heads.

Of course the over arching sad point is that most if not all of these beers Ina Ralph and Carl had clutched with such glee, would ever make it by the LCBO; that the contents of these bottles which these Beer Geeks held, studied and placed with an almost giddy irreverence into their basket, would only ever be tasted by a very few, very lucky, probably somewhat select group of people at the Oasis in Toronto Ontario's, cafe Vollo. Seems a shame, but then again, there is a good group of friends of my little group of friends here that I'm sure will feel quite blessed that their friends Ina, Ralph and Carl went to such happy troubles.

After the second beer stop of the day, another store, surprising with a smaller selection but still an almost barely overlapping selection from the selection at the last place. It was during this stop that Ina planned her ambush. Disappearing for just a moment to collect her arsenal... Now, here's another sign that you've hooked the right friends with the right friends [said the Goofball apprentice as he rubs his knuckles on his chest and says, ya, I did OK]; here's another sign, it's when one of these friends starts making better plans than you had made for the next meeting of all these friends. Ina, a Beer Geek, but a restaurateur at heart, had stocked up on all the things required to undertake a full frontal lunch assault on the studio of this beautiful Roman they'd all just met. Hey, I'd thought we'd just pop in for a quick visit, nope, Ina had prepared us for the next mission of the day. D-Day, the landbourne assault on Dumbo... and away we went...

Let's just say, these good friends are all now good friends themselves, anymore, and this all may become more sloppily sappy than even I could bare. Small snippets, hastily assembled chairs, just enough plates to go around beers such as "Arrogant Bastard" being tasted, wine flowing, bread breaking conversations breaking out all over the place; all finished off with the last bottle of wine while lounging in the sunshine watching a school bus load of tiny kids throwing rocks into the water at the absolutely stunning beach between the oldest and most prettiest bridges in this greatest of great places. Hmmm... says the Goofball apprentice, I done did good indeed. Kisses goodbye, we'll see youse agains soons all spoken, me and the Beer Geeks headed out on the rest of the days main mission, more beer...

The rest of the days detail are delicious but relatively unimportant, you can safely assume it was more beer in perfect beer spots. If I had the urge to become a Beer Geek myself, well, I've got my day of initiation all planned ahead of me. We did have to miss a spot, unfortunately as, the sun just wasn't cooperating and I had to unleash my secret plan to end the day on my roof watching the sunset over the Midtown Manhattan Mountain Range then drag these Beer Geeks into MY beer bar for a final swig and a taste of what is, OK arguably the best pizza in Brooklyn, which of course makes it the best pizza in all the world... The night, the great weekend ended simply watching the Simpson, eating pizza and drinking some passable brews at the place I go to, well pretty much everyday single damned day.

Hooking up with old friends you barely remember having is well, a hoot, a treasure when you become better friends than you were when you were last friends. Of course Carl being good friend glue, I guess this was probably bound to happen. Hooking these friends up with new friends and having them become good friends is, well downright spectacular... You know, I've not once yearned to go back to Toronto. Oh, I'll pop in pop out, see the sister, but for the most part, trips to Canada are family affairs that take place in those two small towns stretched out along the 401 just a nip over the border. That all changed this weekend. I now have this absolute desire to take a trip up Toronto's most commercial street, up to the Oasis, were we'll start with a few beers on the patio, eat a great Italian diner, then slip into the bar to sample a few of the rarities. I'm sure Ina, Ralph and Carl, the lovable Beer Geeks, old friends, pals who got a great big ol' kick outta my big ol' burly Brooklyn home will crack open a special one. Pour out some glasses... a toast to the day we spent climbing beer mountain, now that'll be a toast.

Don't Fart in the Elevator and Other Advice My Mama Done Tol' Me

My friends have been tossing books at me lately. I guess word got out the Uncle GoGo had recently sailed back from his 15 year self expulsion to the Island of Illiteracy and that he was once again eating soft covered gems. They've been chucking books at me which is good as I have recently found myself completely stuck on "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. A thick book that carries you from the primordial goo and ooze through to a promised supposition of where all us jerk's kids kids kids are going to end up in the pecking order once we get this whole big ball of mess all figured out. Interesting, but thick as glue. I mean, I'm lucky to get 4 pages done on the commute in; then end up having to re-read the last of the four pages over again on the commute out... I'm taking a break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories.

Last weekend a great friend, my Roman friend chucked me a copy of "Perfume"; actually sorry, she didn't chuck it all, she thoughtfully placed "Perfume" in with a loving goody bag full of treats, bits of beautiful glass and other precious objects meant to be sent home to Canada by the messenger who shall be reporting back that Uncle GoGo is indeed doing well these days, and that all this recent flow of sap has been justified... Of course, you may have noticed that the sap flow has flowing been a bit shallow lately... Simple problem, fiction.

When I used to read, I'd eat fiction like candybars; couldn't wait to start a new book, always hated finishing them. Like that mad drug you're not addicted to but simply can't get enough of [and oh, I can name a few of those, basically the running list of everything I'm running away from these days]. Fiction is the place I always wanted to go after finishing a day drudging around in my real world -- Another problem, I found like with those drugs, I was loosing time after time... so, off I went, I sent myself to Illiteracy Island and focused on work [well, and drugs].

I guess I have to thank the New York City Subway system and my toilet for bringing me back; AND I guess this new found interest in getting smarter well, OK, trying to get back to at least being as smart as I was one very long day ago; I guess I can thank that desire for helping me find my way to books like "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories.

Fiction eats my brain, I love it, but when I read it, my brain goes wiggly and I loose my ability to speak. I get stuck in this Zelig-like trap and start mimicking the words and phrasings of what ever it is I'm reading. The better the book, the more I start talking like the folks I'm reading about... "Perfume" is fantastic, I've been talking like an 18th Century French courtier for the last three days. Of course, in this case an 18th French Century courtier who lives in a book written in English by and American who lives in Berlin and has a touch of Dickens in his voice. Voila... I'm wiggly.

Again, I should point out that "Perfume" is GREAT fiction! If my recommendation counts for anything, I strongly suggest that if you do like fiction, and especially if you like smelling... I'd strongly suggest putting this good chew on your menu for a future read. OH, and to my Roman friend, thanks for the break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. I have thoroughly enjoyed being wiggly this week, AND you know that on your recommendation alone, I'll gobble up any book you toss at me, fiction, non-fiction or pop-up! Besides, you know, I'm getting older, maybe it has become the time when I learn how to use all these drugs responsibly anyhow. Using drugs responsibly, now there's a piece of advice I shoulda taken from mama when she done tol' me.

Rip Me a New One

Hey folks, unless the technology is yanking my chain and posting false readership numbers... It would appear that a decent amount of folks like to get this sappy goo all over their keyboards. No comments? Honestly, slap me 'round a bit. I'd love to hear for example that the lovey dovey trail I've been on recently is, well gettin' you green at the gills, OR maybe that you think I might wanna get back to "shoulda woulda coulda"... Front yard clothline... my laundries out their, throw a few eggs... at least help me correct my spelling and grammy.

If so not so... Crappy the Sapmaster [oh, BTW my Sapalicious Mentor says that I'm but five silly stories away from achieving the fifth level of crap... the pink belt and white shoes are but five, five little silly stories away... Soon, I will achieve... Fabio-ness]

The Wandering Fool

Even the wandering fool knows that a wander, a good wander is a flight into pure fiction. A dance in the head that starts with your feet and dances you across the city and through your mind into those places no one has ever been to yet. A good wander happens on those days and nights when your mind is open and extra energy surrounds your soul. The wandering fool, burning off a little extra energy with a load of extra thoughts and quick step across the city. The wandering fool wandered backwards yesterday; carried along with the company of graying old friends he'd never met; the wandering fool wandered straight through his almost forgotten history, back to school, back to see old friend with funny smelling smoke and great big noises that makes your fists pump, your belly wiggle and your back almost break off bending itself backwards.

The giant bird played the soundtrack to this particular wander. An ancient giant bird, singing the songs you had forgot that you'd ever forgot about. Old songs that rang in the wandering fools ears a million years ago while he wandered with the fresh faced fools who made his life and pointed him the direction that allowed him to wander in the first place to the place he finds himself now; the greatest of great places. The wandering fool played with his old friends as the ancient bird sang; fiction on their faces as they pumped their fists and sang along... old memories becoming as familiar as the day you first sang that old song... bliss.

Like most things, not all things, a good wander always comes to an end. The end of a good wander ends at exactly the place it suposed to. Across the city, or in the Garden, or at your doorstep. The good wander, as any wandering fool will tell you, ends with a smile, a shake of the head and quite often a good night sleep; a better sleep although better isn't quite the word that best describes that ultimate feeling of balance... The wandering fool will tell; a good wander... A wander past my history, through the gates of the Garden, into the darkness and around the bottom story of a great new house he has now just laid the first stones towards construction. Hey Ho to old friends, good to have seen you all, now good night... and we'll see you again next time I have a good wander.

Oh, and next time I do have this next good wander, I might just bring a new, the newest of new good friends, wink

It's Misty... Or is it?

I've been experiencing instant friendships quite a bit lately. Who knows, Spring, good fortune or maybe its just due to the fact that, I've been flung open recently. Of course, instant friendship, no time, I've never liked using time as a measure of how good friends you are with someone, I mean, time does allow for a greater mixing of memes, but one quality meme shared in an instant could easily equal all the memes shared with another over a life long friendship. Let me sing you a song.

I'm actually wondering if Misty really existed at all. She showed up in the middle of a desperate night. She had already had an impact on our lives, her arrival [or theoretical arrival] prompting Dylan to make an initial sweep of the dirt burying our lives. Uncle GoGo the aging frat boy and his side kick the never-there SUPER-D. Another pal, Pauly Paul, the big ol' New Yorker, commented that the place looked like a crack den. Having been to a couple crack dens, I'd have to add, a "dirty" crack den. Anyhow, the mere mention that we would be hosting a pretty young friend of a friend we'd never met before, prompted Dylan to clean, and me to cry because he cleaned.

Misty appeared at our door in the middle of the night; I spoke with her more on the phone than in person. We met quickly at the Shredder club, her bonding with my friends over commonalities I barely understand. Dylan stuck by her side, playing the role of the bigger big brother as she lived through her first ever night in this greatest of great places. Being with another new friend, I left her in the hands of my greatest of great friends the next night... she proceeded to scrub the last bits of the dirt left behind from bad times... the next day was peppered with reports on how our fixtures sparkled and or floor shone. Frikin doo-dad-diddly, I didn't even knew we had a floor.

I finally got the chance for a chat with her last night, her last night. We tried to jam 10 years of friendships into an hour, we got quite a ways, but then I had to go down. Exhausted from a great week. I trundled off to bed. I woke up, she was gone as she said she would be. Off to figure things out. Make good choices on whether or not to return and when.

I can say this with absolute certainty. This friend of a friend, a great friend; a person I'd barely heard of until Monday, I can say with certainty, that if she does return, if she really actually exists at all; she'll be returning to an already well established circle of friends. It would appear that the length of time you know some one is also no measure of how good a friend, or of how much sap can be poured out over them as well... don't worry though, I'm not Misty, just happy to have had a cool visit from a cool person, at yet again, the right ol' time.

The Bread Maker... Words of Advise, A Fable... a True Story

...it was say, some... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years ago. I was under the service of a beautiful family; I was the bread maker. My master, a respected professor, a teacher of words and the art of inscriptions was a decent man, he treated us well. Through his kindness, we ate large portions and often had the pleasure of serving the finest of Romans; Senators, Generals, Governors all.. ALL who had in their employ, my Master, teacher of Rome's brightest young.

It was while in this employ, this servitude that I first met my love. She was my Masters mistress, first mistress. She held a distinguished position. Being that my masters wife was often sickly, my love held, on all public occasions the position of wife, and hostess.

During the many feasts, during the many festivals, I would watch through the hole as she performed her duties. I watched as she fed Rome's finest the bread that I had made for my master. I watched as she pleased the Senators, Generals and Governors. I fell in love.

While I made the bread, while I made this bread from the finest of our lands wheat, yeast and water. I would often find pleasure with the woman of equal standing in our house. The women whose role it was to nurse the children, whose role it was to please my master. As I kneaded the dough, and placed the rounds on the warm brick... I would often find a fresh flowing skirt up which to run my hands. Pleasant times in a fine and happy household.

Pleasant times, as I also knew, my masters mistress would be using the hole in reverse, watching me, enjoying the looseness of another servants skirt.

And, so... there came a time, when my bread, still fresh and warm became in demand at one of the many gatherings. I, the bread maker was allowed to personally deliver and serve this warm fresh bread to my masters guests... there came a time when my masters mistress, the first mistress, and I shared a glance. A glance that spoke to us through time and the ages; the glance that put me on the purpose of the mission that brings me to, to this day.

With this glance, I knew immediately that I must see the alchemist, I must see the sage. There came a day when I knelt begging the alchemist, offering but a poor remainder of the coin left to me by the keeper of wheat and yeast. My Master's coin, a coin so hidden that if found, I most certainly would have been cast out from my position of bread maker.

With this remainder, I was able to purchase a precious amount of the special black powder... the powder I would kneed and roll into my master's mistresses bread, the bread I would share with her... the bread, we would share together and through the magic of the black powder... agree to meet centuries ahead, re-incarnated in a time when bread makers and first mistresses could be one.

But, fuck man... That stupid frikin' chemist sold me a bag of goods. I mean that black powder was the rawest of shit; you know, OK the stuff you sell to your poor uncles stupid kids. I mean, fuck dude... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later... I gotta wait until, I'm what forty something... dozens of relationships wasted and done and paid for, ok, ok, some good some bad, but dude. IT took eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years to get back to bein' wit that babe I'd digged through the hole away back then...

OK, deep breath... Yes, that cheap assed alchemist and his ratty ol' black powder worked; I did finally meet her again after all these years... AND, I'll tell you my friends, it was absolutely worth the wait.

So what if we've been through this or that... so what about the ages and the age. Hey, If I'd bought just one grade finer of that black powder, hell maybe it would have been a few years earlier, maybe 50, 60 years earlier; maybe I would have been G.I. schmuck face, meeting the love of my life in Rome, next day, shot down and laying under the treads of a Panzer.

Word of advise... Mystic practices, fables, potions for love and promises to meet millennia hence is by rights, a tenuous game... When someone, even with just a simple glance says, I love you... stop, grab her and run away with her as quick as you can. Black powders, baked in bread may eventually work, you may eventually find her again... as I did... but then, hmmm... that's a muggily mugs game... grab her and let all the precepts and cliches be damned.

I was going to try to work the Pope dieing into this... facts written as fiction, the mother of all bitches...

My black powder worked. But eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later[?], damn...

I will dedicate myself to making up for this lost time.

:-)

Something New at York

Nothing New at York as I rode the train home everyday in the first year I lived here; here in the greatest of great places. Nothing New at York as I'd ride the train into and out of the station that no one seemed to get on or off at. Nothing New at York, always assuming suspecting that those few people I never saw get off or on were, special. Nothing New at York... I somehow always knew someday, there'd be, something...

I hesitate this, pause it, until I remember that it was the wind rustling the pages of this open book that alerted her to me. It was these sappy splatters that made her know me and say hello. There is no public or private today, the day after the most important bridge walk I have ever walked. A walk from there to here; a walk in the howling wind and cacophony of a city closing down it's day and starting it's most wonderful evening. Wash your hands and spray on some pretty perfume; Sappy, happily sappy... a lifetime on a windy bench, just inside my blessed Brooklyn, two green chairs pulled closer than a 1000 years of roman bathouse history and two bottles of bunches of grapes... the promise of peaches. Snap shots more clear than the fastest paper could ever hold; little stones in plastic boxes, a stone on the shore, asked for and handed me by a skilled stoner, ancient tools that only special hands can know. My head spins from glimpse to glimpse, two chairs, a sip, a rest from the conversation for a breath, for smoke, a stare and then more kind words, all the while just simply completely utterly, wonderfully, comfortable... Next, Peaches.

Something New at York. I'll no longer ride looking for the people, who I know, who are special, and who are not there. I walk down the pillared isles of this empty place, spinning around half to dance, half to see if I've been followed. A blast of shiny steel, the sound and the rush familiar to every morning on this most surprisingly familiar of mornings. Sitting in the sunshine on the shore beside this greatest of great places, dawn... There is something I've always known, Something New at York, me thinking of nothing but you.

yo, leave home the book of rules!

There goes the neighborhood...

Current mood: happy

Woke up late Sunday in a very good mood. Very good mood is putting it lightly, how about fantastic mood, how about best mood I've been in in quite some time, how about best mood ever... tough to rank a good mood. The morning started with listening to all the recorded enquiries from the night before, text mail, voice mail, email. To put it mildly and keep it privately, the night ended at and with very good Karma.

Jen got the first call for coffee. Re-parked the car and headed out to the Green Street Cafe. Our second of what would be many "bump intos" was Dave's dog. She looked rather unhappy lashed to a lamppost, barking at another dog across the sidewalk, so I gave her a few petty pets and huggin' squeezes. Of course, as soon as I was through with that, she started barking again. Dave came out with a chair, coffee and smoke. It being after 12, Jen and I stayed in for wine. As it would be the case that day, on the first smoke break, Amy wandered up along with Dylan, Paul then a tossled haired Dan. Obviously, their night hand ended lately, I was happy I hadn't followed them out of the Mark at 5:00 after my bouncy night cap.

We all split up with various things to do, shit, shower and shave, some off to Dan's parents for Easter Dinner, others off to bed, me... a slow long wonderful walk about my beautiful home in Greenpoint. Stops on stoops for thoughts and smokes. A trip to the beach to look at the city, a wander over to Amy's to see if she was ready... home to read email, pretend to work and a quick nap...

There goes the neighborhood...

I live in a small town populated by what seems to be a disproportionate number of 20 something / 30 somethings... Oh, I have my older gang, the thieves, dealers and regulars from when I bartended at what most of the 20/30 somethings like to call the murder bar. I constantly run into these pals while outside the Mark, tuggin' and a puffin'. These folks are the rock-hardened locals who for the most part have grownup; lived their entire lives in Greenpoint, well OK, extcept for the 5 to 10 they lived upsate, the ones who have stayed put. The yungin's on the other hand seemed to have entered a season of constant in motion...

Jen moved out of my place, from Freeman to Huron; Dylan, couching it at Amy's moved to my place from India to Freeman; The kids, Sally and JP moved right the heck outta Greenpoint and down to Bay Ridge [they will be missed]; a few folks who are now friends who haven't quite recorded themselves in my name brain, notably the Jewish guy who moved into the apartment Jen and I looked at last year; and the guy I'm told looks like Beck; moved from parts unknown to Freeman and Green respectively; Amy moved from India to Commercial; and Ian after splitting with Dawn moved from Freeman to Amy's old place on India... Oh, and Rusty, one of the rock harders' house burned to the ground on Thursday... I'm certain, it being spring... there will be a few more moves before this season is over, hopefully continuing to be due to simple matters such as break ups and restlessness rather than, fire.

Living in what must be my 37th loft, or apartment in the 24 years since my first one, all this seems vaguely familiar. As the neighborhood continues to accept refugees from Williamsburg and the city; Greenpoint is starting to feel more and more familiar. At a nice pace, it's becoming like some of the great neighborhoods I lived in Toronto, more bars, coffee spots and restaurants. Of course, it's not the bars, coffee spots and restaurants, it's all those folks you'll meet outside the coffee shop on Sunday morning, when your smile is too big to be commented upon, when you're just a bit less tired and worn out than your pals are; when your riding the fumes from the fantastically, ecstatically wonderfully lovely night you had the night before that ended at and with good Karma. The old and new friends you bump into at just about the right time; the friends you're just plain old happy to be living amoungst.

One L Michele - Part One of Many Many More

OK, enough of the guys for a while, time to hit a hard one. Besides, I gotta get this one down before it gets paved over with false memories brought on by all the similar things that have happened since it. OK, the guys have been fun, but feel I'm risking being falsely identified as the faggot [and you KNOW I mean that politely], the craptastic sapalicious anal-izer of all things that happened last night at yesterdays bathhouse... Anyhow, this is an avoidence, you see me avoiding this, why am I avoiding, well because boys and girls, this is the big one, the extremely personal one. Actually...

I'll preface this 'part one' prologue this with a couple of warnings for the squeamish amongst you. Firstly, turn back now or cover your ears and duck; if you do decide to proceed, do yourself a big favor and download a big old load of big assed gee-tar ballads. Vintage 70's super groups would likely serve you best, launch them, crank it and, well well well just sit back and enjoy a tale so wo-full, well, it'll just break your heart.

Fooling with you, really it's just the standard fare tale, young man moves to the city, meets young girl, takes young girl for a wife then proceeds to hang with the transsexuals as the young wife begins fooling about with her art/business partner who just so happens to share the same name as the young man who moved to the city. You've heard it, lived it all before, it's a story told day after day after day in all those books you see the secretaries reading on the subways, on the way to and from work, dreaming of Fabio, settling for guys like me. Avoiding it still, see that, yes, I am avoiding it still, but, well here we go...

Part One –Mushy Meetings:

Part one starts out in the usual place. A guy with an open heart, waiting to fill it with the excitement of a movie and a first kiss. It had been two years since the end of what he thought should have been that previous thang that shoulda just kept right on going. Two years, two problems, firstly, I believe we are meant to bond, so an open heart creates a sad loneliness that just aches day in and day out; secondly, as my buddy Rick said so eloquently once... two years, "I had stored up enough god damned jizz to shampoo a small brown bear". Two years, is a very long time in your twenties [of course, now in my forties, two years is barely enough time to read the paper and gulp down a coffee for breakfast].

So, there I was, all lonely and horny, beginning to shed my flea bitten artist habits... still living like and with a couple of artists but focusing more on money making, and obviously, money spending. I am pretty sure money plays a big part in this one...

I had been working at this place that colorized black and white movies [dare to jar that memory open and I'll be sitting at this here computer, typing furiously for the next seventeen and a half years]... Colorization, I was changing Jimmy Stewart, Orson Wells, Emory Parlle and Peter Lore from beautifully toneful bits of black and white history into mushy noise reduced globs of ill picked and poorly placed colorfully soulless saps that were to dance dollars into the hands of the folks who then would re-secure the rights to these now brutalizingly colorful 'shows' that were once old movies that had fallen into public domain.

A full 75% of my co-workers were either Ontario College of Art grads or Ontario College of Art dropouts like myself. I had worked my way up to upper management, one L Michele became an Art Director. In other words, she picked the colors and I told all my old art school pals where, when and how to stick them.

There's a side story here... Before taking the plunge, I had been eyeing one L Michele for quite some time. I was ready to ask her the scary question, but then she applied for a promotion, a promotion to that Art Director gig... It being mostly my decision on who would get the gig, I felt it highly inappropriate to ask one of the candidates out on a date the day after I had interviewed her. It took a god damned month for me and my partners in this crime to come to a god damned decision, a whole month on top of those danged two years... run little brown bear RUN.

So there I was, ooogling a gal, AND getting good advice from her pal that I was, indeed being ooogled back. Couldn’t ask her out so what to do, what to do but what the heck, throw a party. Money was good, it was time to show off that this hunter and gather at the young old age of 24 or something had hit the nutpot, sorry, had, nut the jackpot and had enough extra dough-ray-me to invite the gang over and feed them from the cooler he filled mostly himself. By the way, sorry kids, this is actually how we all spoke back in Canada a way back at that turn of that century we called the late 1980's, early 90's. We wuz speakin' post punk hallalua glory be god that the cowboy didn't blows us all ups before weze all got the chance to make and spend all this money talk.

Relatively, I had it good, I was living in about 2000 square feet with a couple of pals; the sign on the door of these 2000 square feet read "The Parkdale Sports Fishing and Hunting Club". Indeed, what else to do but throw a party, invite the gang, invite the job candidate, play it coy but get and give some insider info so that when the decision had been made, the question could be asked... The party ended up being the weekend before the Friday we finally hired one L Michele for the job.

There's a sweater, a drafting table and phony ploy from a great old friend mixed up in this story as it heads off to the in-between time between Saturday's party and Friday's decision... Let's see if I can remember which came first and who did what to who now. But first, an intermission, an interlude and a bit of advise to those twenty something year olds who might be planning to throw thier own party... One, plan your parties in early spring so the chicks wear, then discard their sweaters strategically about the house; Two, be sure to invite all peoples who have spoken kindly, highly and often about all the goodness you have offered humanity; and thirdly, if you have a microwave, hide your alarm clock, otherwise, drunken experiments that destroy both may easily ensue. Fucking Twenty Something Year Olds... that was a perfectly good alarm clock!

More on parties in the late eighties, you gotta know the context kids. Remember at this time DJ’s hadn’t yet been invented. Most of the good ones were still tossing the ball on whatever playground it was they grew up on. Club drugs were still being prescribed as relaxants to couples undergoing marital counseling, heck there really weren’t any clubs, well at least not the hanger sized snake pits full of hopped up happy kids that came a few years later. OK, OK, ya ya there were clubs, but to us these were just fading sweaty places, uptown, halls full of aging Ginos and Ginettes, drinking happily named drinks and dancing to tired out old disco dreck. This was a moment in-between. This was the time that all the stuff I had come of age with, stuff like punk, [I mean real punk, not this emo crap the kiddies swoon to these days], stuff like heroic painting and The Dukes of Hazard etc…. This was the exact moment all these things dried up and blew away. My hog hair bristles sat idly glued into each of their individual paint pots. We had grown up and grown out of a whole big bunch of things; conversly, we hadn’t quite grown into something else, quite yet.

Our party was mus-ikked by pre-recorded mixed tapes. Songs would have easily included our old favorite punky-dunkalicious standbys [I'm so bored of the U.S.A], and the stuff we were listening to, in this in-between time; Hank Williams, Ema Sumac, maybe some Roy Orbison. To old for the Smiths, to young, well too fucking young and fucking meaninglessly few in fucking numbers [fark you I AM gen-X], to have anything that was really fuckin' ours. I do recall it being a really good party though.

So yes, one L Michele dropped by to pop a few beers from that cooler. She came wearing a light blue sweater, I spoke with her and her friends a few times, I kept an eye on her to make sure none of the other hunter gatherer types were angling in on what I wanted quite badly at that time. Ways back then we were a much more polite lot, at least my gang anyhow. Oh, there were a few, lte's call 'em, young Turks, jerks who had histories of bagging and bragging, but it just didn't seem to be “the thing” with my crowd, my polite crowd. Maybe it was just the Art Schoolish overly read overly left pedigree and/or the fact that sexy feminism hadn’t quite percolated itself into the form of lipstick lesbians and lady friends who NOW like to bag and brag like the big boys themselves. I had wary eyes on one "bag and bragger" who was spending attention on one L Michele; one L Michele handled herself quite handily...

When the party was over [most likely sometime early Sunday afternoon], amid the beer bottles, cigarette butts and the usual layer of post party scum, we found, a nice light blue Sweater.

It’s always fun to be picked up. Matter of factly, I think this is the case in most cases. Oh I don’t know, I have on occasion, thrown my growl into the ring, I have gotten all he-manny, attempting to snag the “what I wants” from moment to moment, but honestly, growing up with punkish childhood angst and Art School ethos, just didn’t leave me with the tool required to dive into the frat boy pool and compete for the super lovelies. Stick with what you know, let them come to you; uber passive aggressiveness; sickly charm a little compassion and a little empathy… I had one L Michele in the bag, I was now in possession of her light blue sweater.

…AND with that, this is the END of part ONE of many… Tune in next time, when the we'll examine just how the light blue sweater, drafting table and phony ploy from a great old friend lead us directly to the wasted, or rather the years of growth and experience, eight great years, eight years that I will just have to ask you… just WHAT did you do… Eight years, was a vey long time, I think it may deserve Parts 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and, maybe 7 and 8, and in all likelihood… 9.

My god, NO, we're not talkin' "best years of your life"... just good years that helped fill the gap between, well between then and now.

This is NOT a Diary

It was a day... I do not want this, this to turn into a diary, a teenage diary of sadness and angst that all those little girls go through and write about in those little key locked books… BUT today WAS a day,

As you already know, your ‘days’ usually start the night before.. as mine did. Met with the x for a few drinks over witch she could finally explain the goofy assed stories she’d started to pepper me with on Friday, Saturday, Sunday… three way love machines on a Friday morning with the guy I really hope steps up and takes responsibility with her…

This is not a dairy… This is NOT me talking about waking up late after creeping out my pals about how happy I am with the friends I am meeting… This is NOT the daily journal of little things that happen to me, this is about those three words… this is a project, two projects which I will… I will, I will promise as strongly as an any atheist who carries the bible his mom sent him last Christmas, in his pocket can. Carried NOT to feel GOD, but to feel the concern of his mother… I swear on this bible these projects will be completed.

Fun year, good friends… good new friends, WHO I am now probably scaring the firkin be-jebus outta…

Oh, and it was just that, a day… a day with too much work and way not enough… what… compassion, empathy… joy… I do believe it is time for this ol’ fu, to go to…

What does this Smell Like? -- Part I

I woke up this morning in a kind of haze… but honestly, it’s not about this morning and the things I did last night. Sappy sentimentalism has been coursing through the veins for months. Long walks, bridge walks visits to the places I first visited on my first visits to this place I always wanted to live in… I have lost my memory of how it all used to smell.

I have this vague memory of the tingly excitement I would feel as I got off of the bus, train or plane and the dove head first off the deep end into this place. I recall a tradition where I would immediately hit a bodega, buy a beer in a bag and drink it seripticiaously as I walked through midtown thinking whoa, mudda fucka, I’m walking the streets of the greatest place on earth, drinking a beer on the streets where nobody gives a rats ass about me OR the fact that I am doing this or that, god bless the 80's.

My first trip here was a twelfth grade Urban Geography field trip… I carried about 60 spliffs across the border and triped on ‘cids the whole way down. I got an 80 on my notes and saw “West Side Story” while tripping and holding my first Ultravox album in my arms, waiting to puke on the Eddison’s roof while looking at the wooden rockets that hold the water that bathe us and feeds our thirst.

That was high school… Art School brought me here at least 5 more times between 1980 and 1984…

What did it smell like?

It did not smell like the aroma of Seattle brewed coffee… It did not smell like garlically pesto… It smelt like a great big pile of lubrication, lubrication, grease that makes things go. It smelt like garbage, great big pile of garbage… it smelt like the sweat of COOL people doing COOL things. It smelt like the big ol’ place I knew I’d someday come to help myself to the ultimate newness, freshness and excitement. I needed to vindicate the urges some folks in my life have always told me to avoid.

We’re four months away from my fifth annivesrary… although I have completely enjoyed integrating myself into the greatest place on Earth… I have also mourned the loss of the excitement I used to feel when I came… this being the Zenith of all places, I wonder if I’ll ever know that feeling again, I mean, I’m not going to London, Paris or Ho Chi Min city thinking, well this, that, there will be the place I will define myself.

I got it, I have it… I read my books on the V and wish these mother fuckers would stop holding the door open so that I could get to work. I walk the streets of the West and East Villages, Williamsburg, Cobble Hill, Coney Island, Clinton Hill and Greenpoint; as I am walking home a citizen, rather than, as an excited tourist.

It’s good… It’s bad… I miss the way it used to all smell.

What is up With Doc?

Current mood: grateful

You must know by now, where you meet the best of your friends. You meet great friends at school, often life long friends. You meet good friends at work, sometimes you’ll even know these people for a year or two after you quit that damn assed job… Outside of that, unless of course you’re the church going type, the best friends you meet will be the peoples you meet at your local bar [or simply your local in my world].

I have and have always had a number of “locals”. Matter of fact, and this is already a future hummm in progress, fact is, I always have at least four or five locals on the go at any given time… heck, the other day, I realized I had become a regular at a bar at 23rd and 1st, O’Connels, only because it’s right near the NYU Dental Center, and doink, I’m there once a week, I have a Local for my trips to the Dentist... [free shot of Jamison when I pop in post-op with a face swollen and stuffed with cotton]. I digress, the story of all my locals is on the burner, keep your eyes and ears posted… I promise a serious slew of twisted tales… BUT, wait, this little ditty isnt about locals, it is about one of my most favorite Irish/Bostonian dude-guys [thanks Wade], Doc.

The place I call my Manhattan local is a place called the Swan. OK, here’s the thing, it’s been my Manhattan local for over six years now. The x introduced me to the place mere moments after I met her. I’ve been hitting the German taps at the Swan since, since well, over a year before I moved here. A local is a place you frequent, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not twice a week like it once was… I frequent the Swan now… primarily to see Doc.

Doc’s is an older gentleman [the term gentleman survives today only to describe gentlemen like Doc], he’s older, I believe he’s 69.

Let’s get these facts out of the way; Doc is 69 he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart AND a Bronze Star [more on that later. For my Canadian, and now Italian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired NYC plastic Surgeon, he’s gay, AND he is the best damned Republican I have ever had the pleasure to meet.

Doc and I struck up a conversation long before nine eleven… Doc and I became good friends on the basis of my complete non-homophobic ability to kiss him on the lips every time I saw him, and our ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic [non-partisan democratic mind you] enlightenment. Doc is a true American argument… I mean, c’mon, he’s not only gay, a decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican, he’s also from the Land of the evil, cursed family that tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that booze running flaming wackos… ooops, sorry, Doc is from Massacheustis [the place I cannot not only not pronounce, but cannot spell].

The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he’ll talk about himself… He was born to middleclass Irish folk up in Boston, AND he has the accent to prove it. Haven’t heard much of his childhood story, but some how he got himself through med-school. It was back in the sixties, he somehow knew, he’d have to serve; an old prof who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned down there, but when that sheltered assignment was up… he requested to go to Nam [he had the opportunity to do Germany, but he REQUESTED to go to Nam].

He honestly hasn’t told me much about being a warrior/doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me a weird drunken story about this cove he’d often swim in and how he rescued a small child from the currents and the sharks, how he stitched up this boy after the boy had been bitten. He has yet to, but we have an agreement that he will one day tell me how he was awarded his Bronze Star. It is a story, a date, I am very much looking forward to.

It gets a bit sketchy, but he returned from Nam… and skippity-skip-to-lou a whole whack of stories I have yet to hear later, he became a renowned plastic surgeon in the one place outside of L.A. where plastic surgeons are regarded as absolute gods, NYC. Again it’s sketchy, but I can tell you this by seeing his old apartment, he was living the 1960’s / 1970’s Halston lifestyle…

Sidebar, Halston was the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leap frog years above that silly white haired boy who had a loft he called a factory down in the heroin ridden scum town they called… Art. Nope ladies, Halston was NYC in the 60’s and 70’s AND Doc’s old apartment stank of Halston… mirrored walls, zebra print bed sheets, red shag carpets and 100’s of thousand little glass figurines… every where. Not to mention two cute as doodles little doggie dogs who survive to this day at 16 and 18 years of age.

Doc has told me stories of being pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold Roles Royce… He 'Falls' with his pal Trudy [heir to the scientist who invented no more tears and sold it to Johnson and Johnson], he 'Falls' with Trudy at Villa Desta [along with Donettelo et al]… he’s a once a year Winter regular guest at the Bermuda Beach Club… He has introduced me to friends, good friends, who own restaurant chains who get chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limos. He has told me all these stories, and, the way he has told them, I have never once felt belittled, or subrogated to another class. Doc, my good dear friend, knows the value of friendship… I will leave it at that.

Actually, no maybe I won’t… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas as I was, in a forgetable state, Doc gave me the greatest compliment a friend could give… I had a whole big whakin’ pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through them with Doc… Gordon, he said, you don’t need to go to your AA meetings… you don’t have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take a month off whenever you’re feeling out of control… Gordon, he said, go to the NYU Dental center [across from the VET] on first Ave, they’re cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth… Gordon he said, you and Jen will remain good friends… and, you’ll meet someone soon… we then proceeded up Park, him drinking, while me holding him upright as I was, well at his advise taking a month off. True, utter beautiful friendship.

The compliment came when he told me, Gordon, 'the nice thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things to be attempted to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have issues; issues are so much more easily manageable'. I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I would stick on it until the day I die… Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I actually feel the moment I walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… nuff said about that.

I have a vague memory of the things I wanted to get up to as I started to write this stuff about my good friend Doc. I think I may have wanted to write about our non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union [over which Doc and I have buried hours!]. He’s a Republican, I’m a Canadian [and we’ll leave it at that]… We see eye to eye on about 90 percent all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in the Gomorrah theory of the US of A, and where as I see a country, empire, epoch, not yet even beginning to take it’s place in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same position…

I wanted to write about these conversations, but as I got into writing this, I believe I may have started to realize, that although the stuff you “talk” about with your friends may be important, it really is the beautiful opportunity to talk WITH your friends, share the shit, the luck of having someone close, dear and on your wavelength that makes it all important… Craptastic Sap Master, Signing Off…

Love you guys!

[PS, I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of advice, AND I revel in the advise and examples of life living they give me… to my older friends, Doc, Paul, Fred to name but a few, I am honored, FUCKING HONERED, to have their friendship, and to have axcess to their wisdom…AND am beholden to passing the wise advise they give me onto these younger friend of mine]

Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like a Potatoe.